


When I do it like this

by LaurelSilver



Series: Victimised [1]
Category: Hollywood Undead (Band)
Genre: Captive, Gen, Other, Rape, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-04 00:14:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12759168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurelSilver/pseuds/LaurelSilver
Summary: "When I do it like this! With a wiffle-ball bat!"Funny Man, California Dreaming.Mindless violence based on (probably) the dumbest lyric from Five. Be honest, it's a bit dumb.





	When I do it like this

**Author's Note:**

> Names are useful;  
> Dylan Alvarez; Funny Man  
> Victim (Bitch); anyone you want it to be. The only requirements are that they have a right knee, a butthole and most of their teeth. Beyond that they can be anyone you hate. Call it catharsis. Gender doesn't matter, Victim is referred to as 'it'.
> 
> Just to be very clear;  
> 1\. I have not done, nor do I have any intention of doing, anything described in this fic. This fic is pure fiction.  
> 2\. I don't think Dylan has done, or has any intention of doing, anything described in this fic. I used Dylan purely because the dumb lyric is his dumb lyric.  
> 3\. I do not encourage or condone anything described in this fic. This fic is pure fic. Recreating this fic, or anything similar, is illegal and immoral and very fucked up.  
> 4\. You are not obliged to read, finish reading if you start, or comment/kudos if you finish. There is no story here. It just mindless violence for no real reason.  
> 5\. Victim having any similarities to anyone real or fictional is unintentional.

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s your homie Funny Claus!” Dylan announced as he punched the light switch. The heavy metal door clanged shut, the naked bulb erupted yellow light, and Victim flinched in its cage.

Dylan ran down the stairs, plastic bag in hand. Victim pressed back as far away from him as it could manage. Welts clung to its ribs, burn blisters to its legs, bruises to its arms and hands. Purple blossomed from its eyelid.

“You wanna see your present?” Dylan said. He crouched by the cage and waved the bag at Victim.

Victim shook its head.

“You sure? ‘Cause I got cooked chicken upstairs and I _was_ considering letting you have the scraps if you were a good Bitch today.”

Victim’s stomach growled. It hadn’t eaten at least three days now, maybe more. There was no sunlight in the basement, no clocks, no way to tell the passage of time beyond Dylan’s erratic visits.

“Do? You? Wanna see?”

Victim swallowed bile and nodded.

“Can’t? Hear? You?”

“Yes, sir,” Victim croaked.

“Good!” Dylan sat down and tore the bag open. The present fell into his lap; a long plastic bat, yellow, with cardboard packaging holding the hollow ball on the end. Dylan waved it with a grin and the ball fell straight out, bouncing and rolling away. “Oh for fuck’s sake!” Dylan threw the bat down, “I paid five fucking dollars for this shit!”

Victim shrank further into its cage. Dylan unlocked the cage and threw it open, the little door smacking into the side of the cage. Victim flinched.

“Get out here.” Dylan said.

Victim pulled itself forward, trembling on battered limbs as it crawled to the mouth of the cage and stuck its head out. Dylan aided it out, pulling it onto his lap. Its legs dragged on the dirty floor as Dylan arranged it between his legs, leant against his chest, and he petted its hair.

“Pick it up,” he said.

Victim picked up the bat. The bat was hollow and light in its hand.

“You know what I’m gonna do to you with it?”

“We’re gonna play wiffle ball, sir?” Victim said.

Dylan chuckled. “No, Bitch. I’m going to fuck you in the ass with it.”

Victim’s legs spasmed and a phantom pain shot up its back. Dylan’s fingers tightened in its hair and it yelped. It swung the bat, smacking Dylan in the shoulder. Dylan snatched the bat from its weak fingers and held the weapon away from its reach. It flailed, held firm by the fisted hair. Dylan tugged harder, and it whimpered and froze up.

“Bitch,” Dylan said. He loosened his grip on its hair and patted it. “We know what happens to Bitches that fight, don’t we?”

Victim nodded and sobbed.

“Go get the ball.”

Dylan shoved Victim to the corner. Victim stumbled and crumpled. Dylan smacked its bare ass and stood, whistling a riff as he walked to the centre of the basement. A pair of rings were bolted there, one at his feet, one in the ceiling with a length of rope strung through it.

Victim crawled, aching and whimpering, to the corner. A series of oblong holes were set into one half of the ball. Victim could fit its front teeth into a pair of the holes and let the ball hang out of its mouth as it crawled over to Dylan. Dylan crouched and snatched the ball, and pain flashed in the front of Victim’s mouth.

It dropped, sobbing. “Please don’t hurt me sir,” it begged, “I’m so sorry, sir, please, please don’t hurt me.”

Dylan wiped the ball on his shirt and pocketed it. It made a lump against his thigh. “Think I got the right size. Couldn’t exactly whip my dick out to compare, could I?”

Don’t hurt me, sir.”

“Might need some shoving, but we’ll get to that when we get to that.”

“I’m sorry, sir-”

Dylan smacked Victim in the jaw. Its head reeled back, fresh pain pulsing in its cheek. Victim choked. Dylan crossed its wrists and wrapped the rope around, tying it tight. He stood and pulled on the other end of the rope. Victim yelped as it was dragged to its feet and up, bruise-blossom arms suspended above its head until it was forced onto its tiptoes. Dylan tied the rope down to the ring on the floor. He twirled the bat and tore the last of the cardboard packaging away. He circled Victim as it continued its pathetic whimpering, poking it in its ribs and hips. It danced on its toes, swinging mere inches away from him before the rope held it back.

The bat slammed into Victim’s shoulders. The hollow thud echoed around the basement. The pain was empty, duller than a belt buckle, fading faster than a sledgehammer handle. Dylan swung again, driving the bat into Victim’s stomach. Victim wheezed and grunted, and gasped the air back as fast as it had been winded.

Dylan lowered the bat. He stood by Victim, tracing a thin cable-welt along its ribs. It shivered at the touch. The tip of the bat brushed its knees. Victim tiptoed away from the bat. The rope pulled it back and it stumbled and fell, suspended by its arms as it swung straight into Dylan. Dylan stepped back with a retch.

“God, you fucking stink,” he said.

Victim struggled back onto its toes. “I haven’t showered since you kidnapped me.” The rope had bitten into its wrists and the muscles of its chest and sides ached with effort.

Dylan kicked it in the shin, sending it sprawling and flailing again. He whirled the bat at it as it swung like a yelping piñata. He turned and pulled the knot of rope loose and off the ring.

Victim fell hard to the grimy concrete, landing in a graceless heap. Dylan pulled the rest of the rope down and snaked it around its legs, wrapping around its thighs and ankles until it was sat upright with both legs kept bent and slightly open, hand held between.

Dylan picked the bat up again and brought it down on Victim’s right knee. It thudded and the pain clung right down to the bone. Victim yelled and Dylan hit again, almost the exact same spot. He hit again and again, the agony flaring with every rebound of the bat.

Dylan stopped, a large dent bore into the bat. He pulled the ball from his pocket and gave it a few tosses in his hand.

Victim sobbed. The skin of Victim’s knee was deep red and split on the kneecap, and cramps had set into the other. It kicked its useless legs.

Dylan crouched next to it. “Open wide.”

Victim dropped its jaw and choked at him.

“Wider than that, I know you can Bitch.”

Dylan shoved the ball into Victim’s mouth. Victim’s jaw was forced open until it dislocated, lips stretched as far as they would go. Dylan held it by the back of the head and gave the ball a smack. The smack jolted through Victim’s teeth and skull.

“Don’t you dare spit that out,” he warned.

Victim sniffled. Dylan got up and searched through the box set by the stairs until he found what he wanted. He tossed it from hand to hand as he walked, searching its silvery surface with his thumbs until he found the new edge. He pressed the tip of the duct tape to Victim’s jaw and wrapped it around its head, sealing the wiffle ball in its mouth. He left the roll hanging from the side of Victim’s mouth.

Dylan grinned and pinched Victim’s nose. It struggled in his hand and he let go. Victim gasped air through its nose and he pinched again. Victim groaned and spasmed. The ball pressed against the tape as it tried to spit the gag out, chest burning for forbidden air. Dylan grabbed the bat again and ran his hand over it. His fingers dipped into the dent. He stepped over Victim, drew the bat back and swung.

Blood flooded Victim’s mouth. It groaned as Dylan pulled it back up and swung again. Teeth crunched and shattered, and pain rattled through its jaw.

Dylan stepped away, leaving it snivelling in the grime. He stroked the bat, new dent set into the cheap plastic. He put the tip of the bat on the floor and stood on it. He twisted the bat in his hands. The dents buckled and bent and tore open. Dylan grunted with effort.

Victim shuffled away, kicking as hard as its restricted legs could. Dylan straightened and held the bat up. It was still in one piece, the broken plastic curling out, corners of the dents strained and angular. Dylan seized Victim and dragged it back as it screamed. He forced it onto its knees and forwards until its face was pressed into the dirt, tape roll now hanging from its chin, bare ass in the air.

The crushed tip of the bat ghosted over Victim’s tail bone and down between its spread cheeks. Dylan pressed, and the tip dipped into Victim’s hole, stretching the tight skin.

Victim howled into the gag, fresh tears running free into the dirt. The plastic was forced in, the first dent stretching the tight skin. The corners of the dent stretched then sliced the sensitive skin as it moved. Dylan pulled back and pushed in again, fucking Victim’s bleeding hole on the widest part of the dent.

Dylan pressed his palm against the base of the bat and forced it in as far as it would go. The second dent stretched and tore its way in and Victim screamed into the concrete. Dylan sat back. The thickest end of the bat was buried, and Victim’s hole dripped blood down the narrowing plastic. The bat trembled in the air, getting sucked in slowly as Victim kept flinching in pain. Dylan’s zipper dropped. The bat was pulled out in one sharp move, and Dylan dragged Victim closer to him.

His cock stung as he sank into Victim’s slicked hole. Blood dripped down Victim’s crotch and thighs as he thrust, rough and erratic, hips knocking Victim’s ass. Victim screamed and howled into its gag, ball grinding into broken teeth.

Dylan gave a long whine as he finished. Victim’s howls died to pathetic whimpers. Dylan pulled out, and a sticky red mess clung to his softening cock as he stuffed himself back into his pants. He dragged Victim across the floor and shoved it back into its cage, still held in its rope. He closed the door, stood and ran up the stairs two at a time. The cage door swung open on its loose hinge and the basement door had been left open, light streaming down the stairs.

Victim wriggled and blinked away tears. It kicked out. It could pull its shoulder off the ground by just a few inches for just a few seconds before it sank back down. It rolled, pulling itself up onto its face and knees. Pain flared up its back, blood still dribbling from its hole.

Dylan clattered back down the stairs and Victim cried out. Its blood clung to Dylan’s clothed crotch. He dropped a foil package into the cage, shut the door, locked it and pocketed the key. “Enjoy!” he grinned, pigtails bobbing, “Have as much as you want, Imma throw out whatever you don’t eat, okay?”

Victim moaned into its gag.

“Good Bitch. See you tomorrow!”

Dylan backed away, waving as he went. He reversed up the stairs, watching Victim.

Victim reached for the foil and hooked its fingers around the package. It held the food up and tried to bend closer until it was pressing its chest flush against its thighs. The wrapped food was still at its crotch, miles away from its sealed mouth. Victim whimpered and shook the futile parcel.

Dylan chuckled, punched the light switch and slammed the door. The room was plunged into pitch black and the lock clanged. Victim howled.

**Author's Note:**

> Yep, you just read that.
> 
> I want to explain myself a bit because I know this story was a bit fucked up. When I was still at school I studied social science (psychology, sociology, etc) and in that I studied postmodernism. In a nutshell, postmodernists believe that all social constructs have crumbled and that anything can be whatever you make it. The example our teacher used was a chair; he held it up and asked us what else it could be other than a chair, to which I screamed "It could be a lethal weapon!" because I was an edgy-arse teenager like that. "It could be a lethal weapon" then became an in-joke in my class, along with the fact I couldn't pronounce patriarchy. When California Dreaming was released there were a lot of fans making jokes about the wiffle ball bat line and the 'lethal weapon' joke came right back to me. So when I next got a break from the WIP I wanteed to write a 'lethal weapon'/wiffle ball bat fic. It just spiralled a bit and got awful.  
> (Also I know Victim didn't die so it's not 'lethal', shut up I felt bad.)  
> I'm not sure where I got the vague/cathartic 'Victim' idea from. I just didn't want to use an actual person.
> 
> I know I suggested Dylan might be as thick as wiffle ball. I'm British, I actually had to look wiffle ball up to understand why HU fans were taking the piss out of the line. I think they're about the size of a baseball and you can (just about) fit one of those in your mouth, though I don't recommend it. Also, I don't know how thick Dylan's dick is. I've never seen it and honestly I don't want to.
> 
> Again, you don't have to review or kudos if you don't want. I admit I felt a bit gross writing this. This is going to be in my writing notebook forever.


End file.
